The Loom in the Parlor

My grandmother inherited a Victorian house in the hollows of West Virginia, a place called Thistle Hollow. The house, known locally as the Wainwright Place, had stood empty for decades, its gingerbread trim rotting and its windows like vacant eyes. My mom, her new husband Dale, and I drove up from Florida for the summer to clean it out and prepare it for sale. The realtor warned us of a strange history: the original owner, a reclusive widow named Martha Wainwright, had been found dead in her parlor, her body wrapped in her own weaving loom, the threads pulled so tight they had cut into her flesh. The official cause was a heart attack, but the locals said she’d been ‘unwound by the house.’

We arrived on a sweltering June afternoon, the air heavy with the smell of dust and dried flowers. The house was larger than I expected, with a wrap-around porch and a turret that looked like a witch’s hat. Inside, the rooms were cluttered with furniture draped in white sheets, like ghosts of a bygone era. The parlor was the worst: a massive loom sat in the center, its warp and weft still stretched, though the threads were frayed and stained with something dark. It felt like walking into a held breath.

The tour was just us. A local handyman named Gus, who was supposed to help us with repairs, gave us a quick rundown before leaving. He told us the story in a low voice, his eyes darting to the loom. ‘She was a weaver, you know. Made the most beautiful tapestries. But after her husband died, she stopped talking. Just wove. And one morning, the pastor found her… tangled in her work. They said the pattern she was weaving showed the house itself, burning.’ He left us with a chilling warning: ‘Don’t touch the loom. It’s still set to her last weave.’

We started in the parlor, dusting the shelves and inspecting the furniture. My stepdad, Dale, was a practical man. He scoffed at the ghost stories and went to check the basement for mold. My mom and I began sorting through a trunk of old photographs. I kept glancing at the kitchen doorway, feeling an inexplicable pull. Just as Mom held up a faded picture of a woman with a stern face, I saw it: a shadow, shaped like a woman, standing in the kitchen, watching us. It was there for a split second, then gone. I blinked, and it was just the empty doorway. I told Mom, but she shrugged, ‘Probably just a trick of the light.’

After an hour, Dale hadn’t returned. We called for him, but no answer. Mom went to the basement door, which was ajar, and called down. Nothing. I felt a chill run down my spine. We descended the creaking wooden stairs together. The basement was dim, lit by a single bare bulb. It was filled with old crates and gardening tools, but no Dale. Then I noticed a large, rusted door at the far end that hadn’t been visible from the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar, and behind it, a stone staircase led further down.

We followed it. The air grew cold, and the smell of damp earth and something like burning wool filled our noses. The stairs ended in a narrow tunnel that opened into a hidden root cellar. There, in the dim light, we found Dale, his back to us, standing motionless in front of an old trunk. He was whispering, ‘I see her. She’s in the threads.’ I called his name, but he didn’t turn. When I touched his shoulder, he flinched and spun around. His eyes were wide, and his face was pale. He said, ‘She showed me. The house isn’t haunted. It’s the loom. It traps the women who weave it. It’s hungry.’

Back in the parlor, Dale pointed at the loom. ‘The pattern… it’s not finished. But I saw it in the basement, in that trunk. The final weave. It’s us. The three of us, wrapped in the threads.’ I looked at the loom again, and this time I noticed that the threads were moving, ever so slightly, as if breathing. The shadow woman appeared again, not in the kitchen, but standing behind the loom, her hands on the frame. She was no longer a shadow but a solid figure, gray and translucent, with strands of thread trailing from her arms like veins.

We tried to leave, but the front door wouldn’t budge. The windows were sealed shut, despite the summer heat. We were trapped. Mom started to cry, and Dale, his bravado gone, began to fiddle with the loom’s mechanism. ‘Maybe if I finish the weave, she’ll let us go,’ he said. I screamed at him not to, but he ignored me. He sat on the stool and began pulling the heddles, his fingers clumsy. The shadow woman watched, her lips moving as if reciting a silent prayer.

As Dale worked, I felt a strange drowsiness come over me. The room seemed to spin. I saw my mom’s eyes glaze over, and she started walking toward the loom, her hands reaching out. I grabbed her, but she pulled me with her. In a moment of clarity, I realized what was happening: the loom was unraveling us. It was pulling the threads of our identities, our memories, into its pattern. I saw flashes of my childhood, my mom’s laughter, Dale’s annoying jokes – all being woven into a tapestry that depicted the house, but with us in the parlor, draped over the loom like offerings.

I fought against it, dragging mom away from the loom. Dale was still weaving, his face blank, his hands moving faster. The shadow woman smiled, a terrible, wide smile that split her gray face. ‘Finish the pattern,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve been waiting for new threads.’

I grabbed a pair of scissors from a nearby table and lunged at the loom, slashing at the warp threads. The shadow woman screamed, a sound that shook the house. The threads snapped, and the loom shuddered. The pattern began to unravel, and I saw our images dissolve into a jumble of colors. The shadow woman’s form twisted, and then she was gone, leaving only a wisp of smoke.

Silence. The front door creaked open, and the afternoon light poured in. We stood there, panting, the loom now just a broken frame with tangled threads. We never spoke of that day again, but as we packed the car to leave, I noticed something in the trash pile: a small, finished tapestry, the size of a hand towel. It depicted a Victorian house with a loom in the parlor, and in front of it, three small figures, their faces hidden in webs. I didn’t touch it. I left it there, in the hollow, hoping the house would forget us. But sometimes, at night, I hear the rhythmic clack of a loom, and I feel a tug at my own threads, coming from the hollows of West Virginia.